A View to a Kiss

by Caroline Linden

  Mariah laughed. “A tempting thought. No, I meant about Harry. My mother looked very suspicious when I admitted I met Lord Burke in the park—who is he, anyway? She said he was very dissolute.”

  “Oh, he is,” Joan said with relish. “Douglas has known him since Eton. He gambled away his entire quarter’s allowance once with Lord Burke, not two days after Papa paid it to him. Well! You can imagine how Mother scolded Douglas, and Papa declared he wouldn’t give Douglas a farthing more before the next quarter, which naturally only made Douglas gamble even more with Lord Burke. I think Lord Burke wagers on everything, but he’s wealthy enough to afford it, unlike Douglas, and there are shocking rumors about him and actresses.” She paused. “Did he send you flowers, too?”

  “Douglas?”

  Joan laughed. “No, Lord Burke! Douglas wouldn’t recognize a rosebud if it fell on his head. Besides, he prefers tavern girls, who don’t require flowers.” Mariah’s eyes went wide. Joan looked quite smug for a moment. “Really, Mariah, since when has Douglas been able to keep any secrets from me?”

  “I did think he might try to keep that a secret,” she managed to say. Douglas and Joan had always been very close, and Joan heard the most shocking things from him. Mariah, with no brothers or sisters of her own, had envied her cousins her entire childhood for that. “But enough about Douglas. I shall have to be more circumspect. You’ve been in London for the Season before. What do you think I ought to do?”

  Joan pursed her lips. “I suppose if you simply accept a great many invitations, you’ll be able to meet all the gentlemen eventually. It will take a while, mind, and you’ll be bored out of your head at times, but most of the acceptable gentlemen go out sooner or later.”

  “Only most?”

  “Some are almost never seen; the odd reclusive duke, you know, or the most scandalous rakes who simply aren’t received.”

  “Hmm.” Mariah thought for a moment. “I shall have to think about that. Mama won’t let me accept every invitation.” She paused, then slowly went on, “He came to see me again last night.”

  Joan bolted upright. “Really? And you wasted all this time telling me about bouquets? What happened?”

  Mariah blushed. “He just appeared in the window. I never heard a thing until he said good evening.”

  “And then?”

  She spread her hands and studied her fingers. “I—We argued, a bit. I was trying to discover more about him, and he was refusing so calmly, and then…”

  “Then…what?” Joan looked puzzled at her halting description.

  “I said it wasn’t right for me to call him Harry when he addressed me as Lady Mariah—for he always had, Joan—and then he began calling me Mariah, and then I said I wanted to know what he looked like, and then I—then he—”

  “What did you do?” Joan whispered, aghast.

  “Nothing,” cried Mariah, feeling a guilty blush steal up her cheeks nonetheless. “He—I touched his face. That’s all.” Her cousin’s horrified expression didn’t change. “And he kissed my hand.”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound so bad…” Joan said slowly.

  “No! It wasn’t. But after he had gone, I felt…Well, I felt different.”

  “Like you wished he had touched you?” Joan leaned so far forward, she almost fell off her chair.

  Mariah’s eyes widened. “Yes! That’s what I mean. But—” She blushed again. “Have you ever felt that about a man?”

  Joan’s face turned bright pink and she sat back with a jerk. “Oh! Well, once or twice. I never did anything, of course.”

  “Of course not,” Mariah quickly agreed. They looked at each other for a wary moment, then away.

  “How was it?” Joan asked a moment later, very softly. “When he kissed your hand?”

  Mariah sighed, remembering the feel of his fingers on her cheek, his thumb on her lips, his grip on her wrist as he kissed her palm. “Heavenly.”

  Chapter 9

  The girl was making quiet squeaks of discomfort as Bethwell grunted and panted against her. Harry slouched lower into his dirty longshoreman’s coat, trying to shut out the sounds while not breathing too deeply of his coat’s odor of dead fish and sweat. The alley where Bethwell was taking his pleasure smelled even worse, so he was skulking just outside it, near enough to be at the ready but as far away as he could manage.

  He hated this part of his job, he truly did. Apparently recovered from the heart palpitations that had kept him chastely at home the last several nights, Bethwell was making up for it tonight on a debauched spree through Whitechapel, drinking and gambling and now rutting, and Harry had drawn the straw to follow him.

  No, that wasn’t fair. Angelique couldn’t possibly do it. Not because she couldn’t take care of herself, but the only women out on the streets now were whores and slatterns. Angelique would stand out just for her sobriety, and Bethwell might conceivably recognize her.

  Not that he wished this job on anyone. Angelique had warned him about Bethwell’s tastes, but it still turned his stomach. The fight was bad enough, a vicious brawl between two hulking brutes who looked ready to kill each other—and might have. One man was coughing up pints of blood when the marquis left. Bethwell enjoyed it greatly, roaring with approval at every blow and wagering with a very dangerous-looking character who looked quite capable of cutting a man’s throat. Harry had watched with his teeth gritted and his hand on his dagger, certain he would be required to intervene sooner rather than later. But to his relief, Bethwell lost with dignity, paid his wager, and the Captain Sharp left him alone.

  The whore, though…Harry hadn’t liked the whore from the start. He shifted his weight, searching for a more comfortable patch of brick wall at his back. He didn’t like Whitechapel in general, but particularly not on a dank, cold night when the fog seemed to swallow every sound of warning or alarm and every glimmer of light. He felt blind and deaf tonight, and in Whitechapel those were dangerous things to be.

  A loud groan interrupted his thoughts. Bethwell had concluded his business with the young prostitute. Harry didn’t move, and a few minutes later the marquis stumbled out of the alley with dirt on his coat elbows, still buttoning his breeches. He passed Harry without a sign he even noticed someone lurking in easy earshot of his sordid encounter. For a moment the marquis stood on the street, fumbling at his clothing, and then he gave a terrific belch. Harry glared at the ground in disgust while Bethwell thumped on his chest as if trying for another.

  There was a noise behind him, and Harry instinctively tensed, gripping the handle of the dagger at his waist. But it was just the girl, a small, pale creature who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, emerging from the alley. “My shilling, sir,” she said to Bethwell in a high, reedy voice.

  The marquis didn’t even look at her. He picked a clump of dirt off his sleeve and frowned at it before flicking it away. “I never promised. You weren’t that satisfying after all.” And he started to walk away.

  Harry saw the girl’s mouth fall open and her eyes narrow in anger. More than one man had been murdered by an irate woman, and even a half-starved young whore could put a knife into someone’s ribs with deadly effect. He eased away from the wall, but she made no effort to follow. After a moment her anger faded and she seemed to droop where she stood as if she didn’t have the strength even to be outraged any longer. Harry glanced at the departing Bethwell, strolling away with complete indifference. He cursed under his breath, then came forward to drop an arm around the girl’s shoulders.

  “’Ere, no,” she complained, trying to twist away. “You got to pay first, see. That one promised me another shilling after, and din’t pay it. Two shillings, in my hand now—”

  “Wheest, luv,” muttered Harry in guttural cockney as he propelled her down the street while keeping one eye on Bethwell. He could feel the bones of her shoulder like a sharp bird’s wing through the thin fabric of her dress. She was fair and small, a girl who might have been pretty if she’d been decently fed and cared for. Sh
e had no coat, only a thin shawl clutched around her arms. “No worry, no worry. Oughtn’t you get home to yer mum?”

  “Not without a few more shillings I can’t.” She had stopped resisting and started pleading. Her thin fingers groped at his heavy coat in clumsy imitation of a caress. “Come on, just two shillings, and any way you like it.”

  “Get you home.” He pressed a coin into her hand. It was a better use of Sidmouth’s money than usual, in his opinion. “It’s cold out this eve.”

  Her eyes flashed toward him in shock, but the silver crown had already disappeared into her ragged dress. “Coo,” she breathed. “Thank ’ee…”

  Harry released her and jerked his head in a curt nod. Without breaking stride, he jammed his hands into his pockets and scowled after the man he followed. Bethwell appeared to be unaware of his surroundings as he strode along with a cocky swagger. Harry was sorely tempted to bash the man over the head, stuff him into a hackney, and send him home. Either that or leave the self-righteous prig on his own in Whitechapel.

  Finally the marquis made it to his own doorstep, where his servants would tend to his filthy clothing and putrid odor without comment or reproach. His servants were waiting for him, in fact, holding the door open and lifting a lamp to light his way into the house. No flicker of scorn or disapproval touched their expressionless faces. They weren’t paid to judge, after all, just to obey orders without question. Much like Harry himself.

  He turned and walked without looking where he was going, furious at Bethwell for carrying on like a sailor on shore leave and frequenting such shabby, dangerous places while holding such a prominent station. The man had a responsibility, damn it, if not to his family to live a decent life then to his country, to live the life he promoted for others. Bethwell was a crusader against the rookeries, the gin houses, the poor laws. The poor ought to live more moral lives, he declared in Parliament, and that would improve their lot—not schools or government programs or higher wages. Harry had read accounts of his speeches in the newspapers and wondered what the marquis really knew of the poor. It couldn’t have been much. Certainly not tonight, when Bethwell wagered fifty pounds on a fight where one man might die from his injuries, then paid a half-starved girl a mere shilling for the use of her body.

  The marquis had no use for people like that—the fighter with the broken ribs and blinded eye, or the whore with no shoes and bones that protruded through her skin. They existed only for his amusement, Harry thought darkly, just as he himself existed only for Bethwell’s safety. The man wouldn’t give a damn if someone stepped in front of a knife or a pistol meant for him; he probably wouldn’t even notice. Not that Harry was in this job for Bethwell’s gratitude, but it made him angry that Bethwell didn’t have the slightest care for anyone other than himself. What was the benefit in protecting Bethwell’s life if the marquis did nothing admirable with that life?

  Harry didn’t intend to visit Mariah. He wasn’t thinking of her at all. He walked blindly for a long time before looking up to find himself outside Doncaster House. For an even longer while he stood there staring up at the facade, the gas street lamps reflected a hundred glittering times in the many windows. Lord Doncaster, at least, seemed an honorable man, the sort of man worth sacrificing himself for. That made it all the worse, perhaps, that he was lusting after Doncaster’s daughter with a ferocity that unnerved him.

  While he slipped through the iron gate into the garden, shed his foul coat and cap, and shinned up the ivy to her window, Harry told himself he would deserve nothing less if Doncaster discovered him and put a bullet through his wicked heart. Wicked, for wanting what he couldn’t have, as he saw Mariah innocently asleep against her pillows, an open book under her hand and candlelight spilling over her smooth cheek and white nightdress. Wicked, for climbing into her room and crossing to her bedside to gaze on her sleeping face with a desperate longing that had no excuse and no hope of being gratified. And most wicked for knowing all that, and staying anyway.

  Mariah awoke just as he pinched out the candle beside her bed. She lurched upright, blinking rapidly, her heart pounding from being startled awake. “What? Who—”

  “Only I.”

  She recognized Harry’s quiet voice and searched the darkness, finally locating his shadow as he moved away from her bed. She shook her head, trying to clear her brain. She’d been dreaming of a ball, where dozens of gentlemen holding flowers pursued her while her mother insisted she drink another cup of tea after every dance. A remnant of her day, she thought in disgust, remembering the endless, dull-beyond-words calls from four suitors today alone. Mariah didn’t want to think of them as such, but her mother persisted in naming them so, and their actions had been uncomfortably like those of suitors. For three days now she’d been trapped in the drawing room by the parade of gentlemen—including Mr. Crane, twice—and wasn’t at all surprised it was giving her nightmares.

  But now Harry was here, for the first time in three nights, and if she hadn’t fallen asleep, she might have seen him. He had put out her candle before she woke, and she knew he’d done so by design. “Why did you do that?” she snapped in sleepy frustration.

  “You were asleep,” was his infuriating reply. “You no longer needed a light.”

  “But now I am awake, and I should like to relight it.” She put aside her book, and on impulse started to get out of bed to retrieve the flint.

  “Please don’t.”

  Mariah frowned, although she stayed where she was, sitting on the edge of her bed. She had agreed, after all, at his last visit, that touching his face would be enough. And she supposed it would have to be, even though she had deliberately left her candle burning every night since in hopes he might return and she could catch just a glimpse.

  “Where have you been? It’s been three nights since you came to see me.”

  He was by her dressing table. She heard the soft clink as he picked something up. “Here and there. Have you missed me?”

  She lifted one shoulder, unwilling to admit how much she had missed him. “I was merely curious. Of course it’s no matter to me what you do, or whom you visit at nights.”

  “It shouldn’t be.” He put down whatever he had taken from her dressing table. “It couldn’t possibly interest you.”

  Mariah’s brow puckered. This was not like Harry, this thread of bitterness. “Well, I did wonder,” she said cautiously. “I thought perhaps you had forgotten me, or decided you didn’t care for my company.”

  His laugh was short and harsh, with no amusement in it. “Did you? I can’t imagine how you would reach that conclusion, Mariah.”

  Her frown deepened, but she didn’t say anything, waiting to see where his odd mood would lead next. This was not the darkly charming fellow she had expected.

  He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, it was in a more normal tone. “You were lovely last night.”

  A surprised smile curled her lips. “Thank you.” Then realization hit her. “You were at the Spencer ball? Why didn’t you speak to me there?”

  “You were surrounded by admirers from the moment you arrived until the instant you left. There was no room for one more.”

  Mariah rolled her eyes in the darkness. She had been hounded all evening by gentlemen gazing at her with calf love—or social ambition—in their eyes. Her quest for male acquaintances, undertaken in pursuit of Harry’s identity, had reaped her some tiresome consequences. With the exception of the dances, she had spent the evening as she did most evenings, with Joan and other young ladies. “Nonsense. You have proved you weren’t there, for I was most certainly not surrounded at all times.”

  “Indeed,” he murmured dryly. “Sir Christopher is completely besotted. He was very disappointed when you refused to dance with him. Lord Chipping worships you, but from afar; do be kind to him, he’s a gentle fellow. Lord Howard fancies himself also in love, but I could see by the way you paid him no attention during the waltz that you don’t return the feeling. Viscount Travers spent m
ore time looking at your bosom than your face, until your father came by. That one’s after your connections and most likely your fortune. And Mr. Crane would have danced every dance with you if you allowed him. He hardly took his eyes off you all evening. Has he made an offer of marriage yet, or merely hinted at it?”

  Her lips had parted with shock before he finished his second sentence. Not only had Harry been at the Spencer ball, he must have watched her the entire evening. She had suspected Lord Travers was looking down her bodice, but never managed to catch him at it. She didn’t like him at all, with his small, bright eyes like a weasel and his overloud laugh. Lord Howard was a fool, and Sir Christopher Knightly needed to marry a fortune. But Harry—how could he not have spoken to her and saved her from the lot of them? “You are a coward,” she managed to say. “To watch me all night without so much as a word of greeting.”

  “Perhaps.” He spoke without anger, almost absently, and he continued to move restlessly about her room.

  Mariah’s temper heated another degree. “Actually,” she said, “I doubt it. No, I think the reason is far more mundane. I think you must be frightfully ill-favored, to want me never to see you—”

  He just chuckled.

  “—painfully shy or awkward, since you will not speak to me in company—”

  “Of course.”

  “—and you cannot dance at all. That is unfortunate, for I love dancing.”

  His tall figure leaned back against the writing desk. “I can dance well enough.”

  She put up one hand the way her mother did to stop all argument. It made her wild with frustration that he had been near enough to see whom she danced with and what her expression was, yet made no effort to dance with her or speak to her himself…even though it also sent a tingle of excitement through her that he had paid enough attention to know. He must have been watching her every move. “Easy enough to say, sir, when you cannot prove it.”